


got something to put in you

by verity



Series: forget our future plans [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Derek and Stiles are Mates, Future Fic, Gay Bar, Glitter, Knotting, M/M, Mates, Tattooed Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:01:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The second time Derek and Stiles meet is in a gay bar.</p><p>A wizarding gay bar.</p><p>It's very sparkly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	got something to put in you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eriizabeto](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=eriizabeto).



> Betp and I were throwing around some ideas for a Teen Wolf/Harry Potter fusion AU; I wanted to write some explicit knotting. This fic ensued.

The bar is very sparkly. It smells like schnapps and jizz.

"This is a gay bar," Derek says flatly. He's not really sure where to put the emphasis, keeps rolling the words around in his head after they leave his mouth: _this_ is a gay bar, this _is_ a gay bar, this is a _gay_ bar, this is a gay _bar_.

Laura hands over their wands to the wand-check guy, who smiles at her when she tips him a handful of sickles on top of the two-galleon fee. There's a sign over the window that says _We Check Your Wand So We Can Check Your Wand_ and fairy lights draped along the sill. "Brother dear—" Laura gives Derek an affectionate yet withering look, shoving his claim slip into his hand. "That's why we're here. So you can land yourself a man. Or at least—socialize with other wizards. See how that goes."

Derek has spent most of his life dating women, because it was easier—it was expected, anyway, and women are soft and smell nice, and if they make sad faces at him, Derek has a hard time saying "no." Derek's first girlfriend dumped him after that not-exactly-negotiated biting thing, the next burned most of his family alive, and the last one tried to recruit him for the Death Eaters. Given his track record, Derek has warmed to the possibility of being alone forever. His sisters have other ideas.

"I'm going to be by the door," Cora says, materializing out of the throng of writhing bodies on the dance floor. "There's no backing out of this."

Laura gives him the back-pat that means, _I'm your alpha and I may not have brought you into this world but I can take you out of it,_ so Derek accepts his fate.

—

For the next half hour, he dances. Derek is a terrible dancer, but the men around him don't seem to mind. There's one guy grinding against his ass, another up against Derek's front, hands roaming over Derek's chest, running up and down his thighs, teasing at the waistband of his dragonhide pants. It's fun until it's—not, and Derek pushes his way through the crowd to the bar, sweaty and covered in someone else's body glitter. He orders a Golden Snitch and leans against the counter while he waits, runs his hands through his smooth-spelled hair.

Behind him, someone clears their throat. "That's an interesting look you've got going on, the glittery stubble thing."

Derek turns around, a retort on the tip of his tongue, but it disappears when he sees the guy next to him. He's tall and lanky, with rumpled hair overdue for a cut and muscled biceps outlined nicely by the tight sleeves of his close-cropped black tee. Beneath the shirt, he's wearing Muggle jeans—no wand pocket—that cling to his body like a Lethifold. "Hey," Derek says. "Uh—I wasn't—"

The guy lifts his hand, twitches his fingers, and Derek's cheek is abruptly cool and fresh-feeling. "First time out?" he says. "There's a charm for that, you know. Not all of us want to look like a Cullen."

"I don't know what that means," Derek confesses.

When the guy leans in, Derek gets a good look at his eyes—deep amber, seductive as Firewhiskey—and the curl of ink peeking out from beneath his collar. He smells like oak and thunder. "You," he says. "I—Stilinski, right?"

Gos—hell, Derek can't remember his name, even though it was all over the papers, after—Stilinski blinks up at him. "Do I know you?"

"Hale," Derek says quickly. Stilinski must get a lot of people who—know him, or pretend to, even though he's been out of the public eye for years. "I was—I was the Hufflepuff prefect, when you were—"

Stilinski tilts his head, squints for a moment. "You grew into your ears," he says. "It's Derek, right? You can call me Stiles."

That's a wizarding nickname, that's for sure; it trips easy off Derek's tongue. "Stiles."

"Want to get out of here?" Stiles jerks his head toward the door.

"Yeah," Derek says. He sees the bartender coming with his drink, puts more than enough galleons to clear his tab on the counter. "Let's."

—

Cora's chatting up a red-haired witch in short-skirted robes; she barely spares Derek a glance on his way out of the club, which, great, that's an awkward conversation he can put off until tomorrow morning. Stiles laces his fingers through Derek's after they pass through the door, the motion casual even though his heart upticks as he does it. Derek squeezes Stiles's hand. He doesn't realize until they've rounded the corner to the nearest Apparition point that it was probably a test, but by then Stiles's grip is firm, his heartbeat steady and even as he says, "Yours or mine?"

"I live with my sisters," Derek says.

Stiles snorts. "Mine, then."

—

Stiles's apartment is a large studio teeming with books and plants, the air redolent of the sulphurous scent of his magic. His kneazle twines between Derek's ankles, mewling piteously while Derek shifts his weight from one foot to the other. They've barely touched, just palm to palm, and Stiles seems different in his home, beneath the faint light from the street outside that slices through the blinds. The glimpse of the kid Derek knew—four years behind him at Hogwarts, Gryffindor, a hyper tangle of limbs—is gone, replaced by this stranger, the fulfilled promise of all those headlines after Voldemort's defeat. The brains of The Boy Who Lived's golden trio, his arms looped over Scott McCall's shoulders and around Allison Argent's waist.

When Stiles pulls his shirt over his head, his tattoos spread out over his body again, uncoiling from the knot over his breastbone to weave an intricate pattern over his arms and across his chest. "Most people don't recognize me without them," he says, catching Derek's eye. "You did, though."

"Not from—" Derek clears his throat, looking away. "You—smell the same."

"You remember how I smell?" Stiles raises an eyebrow.

"Wolf," Derek says. Reminds him.

Most people don't—there's prejudice whether you're born or you're made, the reality that between your jaws there's ever-present danger, as if no wizard could do worse with a spell. Stiles hums, thoughtful. "I know," he says, coming closer, spreading his hand over Derek's heart as inky tendrils twine down his forearm and splay out at the wrist. "I'm not afraid of you."

Derek can feel Stiles's magic sing beneath his skin: testing, testing. "No, you're not," he says, putting his hand on Stiles's waist, pulling him in. "I'm not afraid of you, either."

Stiles tips his head, up, back, inviting a kiss, but Derek bends down to press his lips against Stiles's neck, bare and vulnerable beneath Derek's mouth. He bites softly with his human teeth, and Stiles moans, "Fuck, fuck, holy—" and scrapes his nails down Derek's flank to his waist.

Derek twitches the pinky and index finger of his free hand. Stiles isn't the only one with wandless magic, and this kind comes in handy when you own skin-tight dragonhide pants.

—

Naked, they stumble through the apartment, Derek relying on his wolf to dodge the stacks of books and tiny tables that dot the floor. Stiles spins on his heel when they reach the bed, shoving Derek onto the mattress so Stiles can straddle him. He bends over, rests his elbows on either side of Derek's head, and says, "I want you to knot me."

Derek grabs Stiles's hips to steady him. "I've—I've never done that," he says. He meant to say, _I don't_ , but the words change their shape in his mouth under Stiles's gaze, with the flushed promise of his swollen lips hovering just above Derek's.

Stiles grins, grinds down against Derek; their dicks brush together for a heady, shivery moment. "Me neither."

"You don't even know me," Derek says, although of course Stiles does, as much as Derek knows Stiles. Derek wasn't just a prefect—the fire, Kate's trial, it was all over the _Daily Prophet_ for months; someone sent Allison a Howler and Derek stopped eating in the Great Hall altogether for a while. The wizarding world is small, and Hogwarts even smaller.

Stiles leans down and bites a kiss into Derek's throat with intent, the kind that'll leave a mark that even Derek's accelerated healing won't wipe away for days. He nuzzles Derek's neck. "I will."

Derek doesn't have to listen for his heartbeat.

—

The standard spells are simple ones that Derek knows by heart: contraception, protection against disease, cleanliness, lubrication. He never learned the one that humans use to—receive—but Stiles knows it, of course. It's hardly a surprise.

"Let me, first—" Derek pushes down Stiles's wand hand before he can begin the last spell. "I want to open you up. I want to—"

Stiles looks at Derek for a long moment before he drops his wand onto his nightstand. "Huh. You do," he says, placing his palms flat against Derek's hips. Stiles is sitting up and back, and Derek can feel how wet his ass is, the slick between his cheeks dripping warm and wet against Derek's leg.

"I've never done anything with a—guy, before," Derek says. "But I want to do this with you."

He rolls them over, gently, until Stiles is on his back and Derek can reach between Stiles's legs, slid a tentative finger into that hot, dark, secret space. Stiles is tight, so Derek works him open carefully until he's lax and loose enough for Derek to fuck him with three fingers, finding the spot that makes Stiles shudder and bear down on him. "You know what this means," Stiles says, staring up at him wide-eyed. "All of this, I mean—you—"

"Yeah," Derek says. He watches, panting, while Stiles fumbles for his wand, says the spell, stretches himself out enough that Derek won't hurt him. There's no point in—talking about it. He can feel the magic between them pulse as he pushes into Stiles, letting instinct take over, forgetting caution for once. Stiles hasn't said, _trust me, I'll never hurt you, I need you, I love you_ , all the stuff that humans say before they wrap their hands in Derek's guts and pull. There's nothing like love between them, not yet. Just this: Derek rocking into Stiles, feeling him down to his toes and the tips of his fingers, the heat at the base of his spine building slowly, knot swelling at the base of his dick. Inside Stiles, whose face is red and wrecked, flush spread down his chest beneath his tattoos. ( _The bravest and brightest of a generation,_ said the Daily Prophet.)

"You're _mine_ ," Stiles says, clenching around Derek's knot, tugging Derek's hips closer, pulling Derek deeper inside until Derek's tied him through and through.

—

After, they're messy with come, Stiles's smeared between them and Derek's leaking out of Stiles's hole. "You could fuck me again, if you want." Stiles's voice is slow and lazy. "I'm up for it."

Derek shifts against Stiles's side, drops another kiss on Stiles's lips. He already misses being locked inside Stiles, can't wait to do it again and again, to be as close as their bodies can get. "Later," he promises, running a hand through Stiles's hair, even wilder than it started out tonight. They've got plenty of time for everything.

Stiles is quiet for a while, basking contentedly beneath Derek's touch; when Derek's fingers brush his neck, Stiles's tattoos stir, like they're licking Derek's fingertips. "You remembered my scent," Stiles says. "Do you remember anything else about me? Like, how we first met?"

That would have been the start of Derek's fifth year—the sorting, maybe. Just before the fire. "Should I?"

"I fell up a flight of stairs." Stiles turns his cheek into Derek's hand as Derek runs his thumb up the curve of Stiles's jaw. "You elbowed me in the face."

Derek stiffens. "I did not."

"Then you helped me up," Stiles continues, placing a kiss on Derek's wrist. "You were _nice_ about it."

Embarrassment creeps up on Derek like quicksand. People teased him for years, a werewolf in Hufflepuff, lots of "wolf dressed in sheep's clothing, huh?" from the people who were direct about it, and "such a sweet puppy" from, well, Kate; he's had enough of that from anyone, let alone his—person.

Stiles doesn't laugh at him, though. "No—you were—I just _plowed_ into you, dude, I was running after Allison and—you didn't have to be that nice, okay."

"Oh," Derek says. Something warm unfurls in his belly.

—

"You've got still got some glitter in your eyebrows," Stiles says while they're locked together again in the morning light. Derek's sitting up against the headboard, Stiles facing him, sitting in his lap. It took half an hour for Derek's knot to go down last night, so they've got time and an excuse to stare into each other's eyes without feeling too weird about it. "I'm intimidated."

"Afraid of the big bad wolf?" Derek says.

Stiles stills, looks down at Derek searchingly. His tattoos are dormant now—maybe it's a night thing, Derek doesn't know, not yet. "I'm your mate," he says. "Are you going to eat me?"

"Maybe," Derek says, and Stiles smiles at him, all affection and heat and sharp, sharp teeth.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [ladyofthelog](http://ladyofthelog.tumblr.com) on tumblr.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] got something to put in you by verity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/972345) by [sallysparrow017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysparrow017/pseuds/sallysparrow017)




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